


Checks and Balances

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal in Bohemia, M/M, drugged Sherlock (by Adler)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft hates making mistakes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checks and Balances

**Author's Note:**

> Assumes a familiarity with A Scandal in Belgravia.
> 
> I suspect I might have messed up the time line of Scandal. Apart from the certainty of New Year's Eve, I gave up trying to work out what happened when. I'd appreciate the readers just going with the flow.
> 
> Apologies for the delay - I'm blaming Season 3, for all the distracting possibilities it kicked up. 
> 
> Because this series began life long before Season 3, it will remain a season 3 free zone.

CHECKS AND BALANCES

 

DECEMBER 2010

 

Lestrade came in crackling with energy, and smelling of frost, an illicit cigarette, with a hint of stagnant water. To look at him, no one would know he'd just worked a fifteen hour day on nothing but stewed tea.

Open pleasure on his face, before Mycroft could get to his feet to greet him, Lestrade swooped in, kissed the top of his head and stolen from the salad bowl a slice of pear so thin it was almost translucent. 

"Both of us in the same house at the same time for two days in a row. I could get used to this." Lestrade gave the serried row of bottles in front of Mycroft a fleeting glance; when concocting salad dressings Mycroft wore an expression eerily reminiscent of Sherlock when he was busy at one of his more revolting experiments. Not that he would ever tell him that.

"Try this," said Mycroft.

One hand on Mycroft's shoulder, Lestrade leant down to sip from the small amount in the teaspoon held out to him. "Mmn. Tarragon?"

"Not too tart?"

"Perfect."

"Yes," said Mycroft, who was looking only at Lestrade by this time. He caught hold of the bottom of Lestrade's poorly fastened tie and drew him in for a leisurely kiss, during which he slid his hands under the creased jacket to stroke Lestrade's backside.

When they finally drew apart a little, Mycroft said: "Mmn, you're right. One of my better efforts. But you've got to stop subsisting on stewed tea all day. I can hear the noise your stomach is making from here."

"It's been a hectic kind of day," said Lestrade, as if he hadn't noticed something wrong beneath Mycroft's welcoming smile. But he was glad he'd decided to abandon the paperwork until tomorrow. "On which subject, sorry if I still smell appalling, though the worst of it seems to have worn off since this morning. I left my shoes in the hall. Yet another pair lost to the line of duty. The body was lying in stagnant water - and other things I'd rather not think about before I eat. Have I got time to shower and change before dinner?"

"Of course. Don't wear too much. I'll only have to take it off again later."

Lestrade paused to eye him thoughtfully, but now wasn't the time to tell Mycroft he was entitled to ask for comfort without supplying sex first. "Ah. Like that, is it?" he said, because the idea of sex with Mycroft appealed no end, not least in taking away the memory of things he'd rather not remember about his own day.

"This might be our second day together in a row, but me arriving home just as you're leaving hardly counts. I've missed you," Mycroft added, avoiding that too-shrewd gaze.

"No need to sound as if you're having teeth pulled. I missed you too," added Lestrade, gentle because of that vulnerable look Mycroft was trying to hide. Something must have happened. And the odds were, he'd never know what.

But if Mycroft was in need of a distraction, he could do the noble thing and offer up his body for queen and country. Besides, he'd never been able to resist that combination of pond-scum green waistcoat and white shirt.

"We could always have a quickie before dinner," suggested Lestrade, as he leant against Mycroft's side.

Relaxing under the influence of the warm hand stroking the small of his back, Mycroft considered the offer, obviously torn. "I'd rather take my time over you and, sadly, I doubt if I have the stamina for both tonight." He swallowed when he was the recipient of a wicked grin, which licked headily around him.

"You'll never know till you try," Lestrade pointed out, making no attempt to be subtle as he eyed Mycroft in some detail. "Coming?"

He wasn't wholly amazed when Mycroft followed him out the room as if attached on a string, although it was satisfying to confirm that Mycroft was as dick-led as any bloke. Not that it was news, but it was nice to know it was still true. Sometimes he couldn't believe how lucky he was. One thought led to another; even when stoned, Sherlock knew how to hurt. 

"What?" asked Mycroft, as he deftly relieved Lestrade of his clothes.

"Nothing, just... Do you ever get bored?" blurted out Lestrade, hoping he wasn't going to regret this.

Mycroft grimaced. "About forty per cent of my working life is dull as ditch water. Another thirty five has some interest."

"And the rest?"

"Can make me long for the dull days - or at least they should," Mycroft added, trying to stick to his bargain to tell the truth where possible. "I sometimes wonder if I don't enjoy those times a little too much. Why? At least, why ask me that, now? 

"Oh, god, my bloody brother. What's he said to you now?" demanded Mycroft, torn between resignation and irritation with Sherlock.

"Nothing I haven't heard before. And compared to you and Sherlock, I - well, most people - must seem really dull."

Mycroft sighed, leant back against the wall, and drew Lestrade with him, running his hands up and down his naked sides. "A high IQ doesn't necessarily make someone entertaining or stimulating company. Indeed, it's been my experience that the opposite is usually the case. While I have excellent 'people' skills, I assumed I was in that unhappy category of bores - until I met you."

Lestrade blinked at him. "You're kidding, right?"

"You have no idea, do you," murmured Mycroft, slowly kissing the corner of Lestrade's mouth. "When I'm with you, quite apart from feeling loved and surrounded by warmth, I believe that I'm witty, amusing, good company..."

"But you are," said Lestrade, surprised there could be any doubt.

His eyes warm with affection, Mycroft smiled. "Only to you. And I suspect you might be biased."

"It's a possibility," Lestrade allowed. "So... I don't bore you?"

"You haven't so far."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Lestrade, but he was laughing by this time.

"You're being ridiculous," said Mycroft, kissing him lightly again.

"I know," sighed Lestrade. "I should know better than to let Sherlock get to me like this." He tweaked open the top button of Mycroft's waistcoat.

"You imagine I don't have doubts about my ability to keep you happy? Sherlock has always excelled at finding weak spots and playing on vulnerabilities."

"Hang about, why am I naked and you're not?" 

"Because I excel at multi-tasking," said Mycroft smugly.

"You want multi-tasking do you," murmured Lestrade, with a look of wide-eyed innocence that experience had taught Mycroft was not to be trusted.

But there were no fireworks that evening, just the comfort of familiarity and a slow ride to pleasure.

 

Both men were still damp round the edges from the shower they had shared when they padded languidly back into the kitchen, looking as relaxed as if they had enjoyed several hours sleep.

"That salad looks gorgeous," said Lestrade, as Mycroft placed a serving bowl on the table he had set earlier. "What is it?"

"Chicory, pear and Roquefort cheese."

"Lovely. But I'm a growing lad. That's not all we're having, is it?"

"No, it's followed by couscous with saffron, preserved lemon - and scallops."

"Fantastic." Lestrade tucked an arm around Mycroft's waist and nuzzled his jaw. "Tea?" 

"Please."

"Oh, I forgot, what with you having your wicked way with me. The reason Sherlock got a chance to insult me was that John called, which was why I nipped in to see them on my way home. It could be said I got my revenge for him pulling off a few emotional scabs. Check out the pictures on my phone. I would have taken more but John stopped me when he realised he couldn't rely on my better nature." Lestrade tossed the mobile across the table to Mycroft.

To Mycroft's private relief, he caught the phone.

"Incidentally, Sherlock's fine, despite appearances to the contrary, safely tucked up in bed at Baker Street, sleeping off whatever he was injected with. John said he won't leave him tonight."

"You're sure he's taken no ill-effects?"

"John was, which is what matters."

It was a mark of Mycroft's trust in John Watson that he accepted that without further question.

"Sherlock refused to press charges. At least I think he did," Lestrade added with affectionate amusement. "The poor sod was really out of it."

Mycroft's mouth twitched as he watched his brother, as unsteady as a new-born foal, and with about the same mental acuity.

"Do we know who was responsible?" he asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer. Though how Sherlock could have been so lax as to be tricked by Irene Adler - unless she had distracted him. Good Lord. A sex-fogged Sherlock, as unlikely as it seemed, was the last thing he needed.

"Ah, that's where it gets even more fun," said Lestrade with relish, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Miss Whiplash." He set Mycroft's tea down beside him.

Mycroft nodded an acknowledgement before remembering to say, "Who?"

"A professional, high-end dominatrix called Irene Adler," said Lestrade dryly. "According to John, she's currently blackmailing a junior member of the Royal family who fancied some recreational spanking and light bondage. People like Miss Whiplash piss me off," he added, his mouth set in unusually severe lines.

"I know of Ms Adler," said Mycroft, because he had little choice given John's indiscretion. "I doubt if she would enjoy your name for her. She fancies herself an adventuress. She's certainly ambitious," he added, irritated that he must waste his time on her.

Lestrade plonked himself on the opposite side of the table and reached for the salad dressing Mycroft had made. "Mmn, this really is lovely," he noted, having tasted a dab on his finger. He drizzled it over the salad with a lavish hand, before serving them both.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," he said, placing a piece of pear and a crumble of Roquefort in the curve of the dressed chicory and eying it with enthusiasm, "just how are you acquainted with dominatrix - or should that be an s?"

"It can be used as a plural in its current form."

"Neatly avoiding the acquaintance issue," noted Lestrade, before crunching into the chicory.

"Behave." The chill which had entered Mycroft's voice when he spoke of Adler was a thing of the past as he watched Lestrade. "Dominatrix are popular amongst politicians. A few senior civil servants, too. It's astonishing how surprised supposedly intelligent people are to discover they're being blackmailed about their sexual preferences."

"See, that's exactly my point," said Lestrade, through another mouthful of food. "Adler preys on people when they're at their most vulnerable. She can kid herself all she likes, she's nothing but a common blackmailer. Nice tits though," he added condescendingly.

Aware that last comment wasn't in character, Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. "You really don't like her, do you?"

"No, I really don't. Blackmailers are the scum of the earth. Fortunately, we don't see so many of them nowadays. Between celebrity magazines, mobiles and all the rest of it there's less scope for secrets. Which means there's less scope for blackmailers. I tried to persuade Sherlock to press charges for assault but..." Lestrade sighed. "Has he got a thing for her? Never mind," he added instantly, waving away the subject. "None of my business."

"I don't know whether he does or not. I confess, where the words Sherlock and sex arise in the same sentence..." Mycroft gave a theatrical shudder which, as he hoped, successfully distracted Lestrade, who got up to cook the scallops.

 

The following morning, despite the fact the Bond Air operation had reached a delicate stage, Mycroft found time to go to Baker Street to satisfy himself that Sherlock had taken no lasting harm from the injection Adler had administered. Not that he referred to the incident when he got there.

Because he was on edge about Bond Air, he snapped at Mrs Hudson's wittering, only to be taken to task by an outraged Sherlock and Watson. He had apologised to her, of course - he detested bad manners - but he hardly needed Mrs Hudson to lecture him about the importance of family.

Which was why, despite some pressing concerns at work, Mycroft returned to Baker Street just before lunch, secure in the knowledge that Watson was at work and Mrs Hudson was off making eyes at Mr Chatterjee.

"So how are we feeling?" enquired Mycroft with an untrustworthy smile. "No ill-effects from Miss Adler's ministrations, I trust?"

Sherlock gave him the finger with some venom. "Piss off, fat-so."

"Ah, repartee. Never your strong point."

"How did you get in? Taken to picking locks again?"

"Unnecessary. Mrs Hudson neglected to check the front door had closed before she left."

"How did you hear about Adler injecting...? Lestrade, I suppose," Sherlock said with sulky resignation.

"Amongst others. You can't imagine how many people were eager to tell me of your humiliation. Really, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled, making no bones about enjoying his brother's discomfiture. A moment too late he remembered he was here to ask Sherlock to do him a personal favour.

Sherlock's mouth tightened but he made no response, except to turn his back on Mycroft as he curled up on the sofa, the bony ridges of his spine in evidence through the silk of his dressing gown.

"My apologies. That was uncalled for," said Mycroft into the silence. Knowing better than to wait for an invitation, he made himself comfortable in Watson's chair.

"John's blog," he said without preliminaries.

Sherlock whipped round to face him. "What about it?"

Mycroft noted the defensive tone and marvelled at the changes Watson had effected. Sherlock had always been capable of such feelings, of course, just unwilling to drop his guard and reveal them.

"Months ago I warned John that material would be redacted if it was deemed necessary. For the most part, it hasn't been. But the blog is being read more widely these days. My relationship with Gregory - DI Lestrade," Mycroft amended, before Sherlock could irritate him by asking who he was talking about.

Sherlock screwed up his face and visibly just stopped himself from saying "Yuck."

"I'm deadly serious, brother mine," said Mycroft quietly, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. "I am concerned that his relationship with me might become public knowledge."

"You can hardly blame him for not wanting to be linked with you."

"Given a choice, he would shout our relationship from the rooftops," said Mycroft, with a matter of fact certainty which narrowed Sherlock's eyes. "But I'm becoming increasingly concerned that it could be the death of him should my enemies learn we're lovers." That, he was relieved to see, gained Sherlock's full attention.

"Is there a current threat?" Sherlock asked in a different tone.

"Not from the usual suspects. But now there's Moriarty. And Adler. If your suspicions that they're working together are correct they would be a formidable combination. John doesn't know that Lestrade and I are partners, does he?"

"It never occurred to me that he would be interested. Why? You can't believe John would do anything to threaten Lestrade. He likes him. They drink beer and discuss...some sport," Sherlock said, making a vague, dismissive gesture.

"I don't believe he would knowingly put Lestrade in danger. But his blog... I would be grateful if you would refrain from mentioning the relationship to John."

Sherlock sat up. "How grateful?" he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

Mycroft parted his hands. "Name your price," he said simply.

Sherlock's face lit up, before his mouth twisted. "Oh, clever. If I tell you never to darken my door again, John will only wonder why you've stopped plaguing us with visits."

"True," agreed Mycroft placidly, as if he believed that was Sherlock's only reason. But it was more than he had thought to receive and a small pleased smile escaped his controls.

Sherlock threw a cushion at his head.

And because he owed Sherlock a debt, Mycroft allowed it to hit him.

 

Mycroft's air of satisfaction faded as he left 221B. The only bright note about his forthcoming meeting was that he didn't have to go all the way out to Sandringham. Quite apart from his dislike of disappointing the woman he regarded as his ultimate employer, the constitution be damned, it was going to be a difficult hour or so. It was humiliating to admit he had made a mistake. It had been foolishly optimistic to involve Sherlock in a matter of such delicacy as a royal scandal.

Why he had ever imagined John Watson would provide a stabilizing influence...

But there was no point blaming Sherlock and John for being themselves. He knew better than to rely on Sherlock's sense of duty but had gone ahead anyway because he had no desire to deal with the matter himself; frankly, sex scandals bored him. Besides, he had wanted to show off his brilliant brother, now Sherlock was truly free of his pernicious habit.

He took full responsibility for the debacle, and when time permitted would deal with Adler himself.

The journey over too soon for his liking, Mycroft ignobly hoped for an international crisis to arise that would demand his attention but none was forthcoming in the few minutes it took his car to sweep up the steep incline inside the grounds of Windsor castle. 

As a footman stepped forward to open the car door, he exhaled softly as he headed into the castle, prepared to make one of the most arduous apologies of his life.

 

Lestrade lounged on the bed, hoping Mycroft would be in the mood. Lazily teasing himself, dry-palmed as yet, because he was in no hurry, he paused, then stopped when it occurred to him that Mycroft's shower had lasted longer than usual - far longer. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to investigate, knocking on the half-open door before going in to Mycroft's bathroom when he saw the dejected body language.

Wreathed in steam, his back to the door, Mycroft stood in the shower cubicle, motionless under the flow of water as it streamed over his up-turned face. Even from the back, everything about him was eloquent of depression.

"It's all right, it's only me," said Lestrade when Mycroft half-turned, his expression guarded. "I'll go, of course, if that's what you prefer. If not, a light massage under hot water might be just the thing. You don't need to talk about whatever it is."

A little of the tension on Mycroft's face eased. "Thank you," he said as he turned back under the flow of the water.

Already naked, Lestrade took that as an invitation and stepped in behind him. "I'll see to everything," he murmured

Applying shower gel to his hands, he stroked Mycroft clean in a series of leisurely caresses, full of affection rather than sexual intent. Eventually he had the satisfaction of watching tight-locked muscles loosen until Mycroft leant forward to bow his head against the tiles as he let Lestrade wash away the humiliations of his day.

Out of the shower and wrapped in one bath sheet while Lestrade dried him with another, Mycroft's head dropped to rest against Lestrade's shoulder, one palm against Lestrade's side centring him.

Lestrade continued to resist the urge to question Mycroft, his reward coming when a muffled voice said:

"I made a mistake."

Mycroft's breath was warm against his skin. Lestrade continued to pat him dry.

"Today I had to make an extremely difficult and humiliating apology."

Lestrade mopped up some water dripping from Mycroft's hair onto his shoulder but said nothing.

"A little sympathy wouldn't go amiss," added Mycroft tartly, raising his head to snatch the edge of the towel from Lestrade and rub it over his hair.

"You think I don't know what bruised pride feels like? That I've never been humiliated - both at work, and in my private life. It's...hard. And all sympathy ever did was make me want to kick something," said Lestrade, before his eyes widened. "This mistake of yours. Was it anything to do with Miss Whiplash and the royal totty?"

"You see, this is why I don't tell you anything, you're too skilled at filling in the gaps," said Mycroft, but as he had already relaxed back against the support Lestrade was offering, Lestrade knew better than to take such peevishness seriously.

"That's because I have an IQ above my shoe size," he pointed out, stroking the small of Mycroft's back again. "Where did you have to go, Windsor, or Sandringham?"

"The former, fortunately. She leaves for Norfolk tomorrow."

"I take it she wasn't thrilled to hear that Miss Whiplash still has the pictures?"

"As there must be several layers of my skin adorning one of her reception rooms, I think you can assume that no, she wasn't thrilled," said Mycroft acidly.

"I'm sorry, love. That definitely tops my humiliating moments."

"You're missing the point." Belatedly noticing that Lestrade was still damp from the shower, Mycroft began to dry him with an absent-minded efficiency. "I fucked up. And in my line of work... I can't afford to do that. The cost is too high."

"Which is why you do it so rarely. Can I ask you something?"

"You may certainly ask. I can't guarantee I'll be able to tell you," Mycroft warned, from where he was crouched, drying Lestrade's calves and feet.

"This is personal, not work. What made you choose Sherlock for such a delicate job?"

Mycroft sighed and rose to his feet. "And yet again you ask the right question. Hubris," he added wryly. "I wanted Sherlock to be seen to shine by those I serve."

"Instead of which, they saw his naked arse - John told me - and Sherlock nicked an ashtray."

Mycroft tensed. "He did what?" The crisp, too careful enunciation was its own warning. 

"It's on display at Baker Street. He seems quite proud of his trophy. John, too, now I think about it."

"I'll bloody geld him," said Mycroft, looking livelier by the second. He stalked into his dressing room and pulled from the hanger the suit closest to him.

"Mycroft, it's three minutes to midnight. Kill Sherlock tomorrow."

"Of all the childish, wilfully irresponsible..." Muttering to himself, Mycroft went deeper into his dressing room when he realised the suit he had grabbed was inappropriate for wear in town.

"Bed," said Lestrade firmly. While it didn't take a genius to realise Mycroft wasn't going to be able to sleep in the foreseeable future, at least his inadvertent disclosure had stopped Mycroft brooding and wallowing in humiliation, though with an eidetic memory, it was probably difficult to shake off.

"I'm not in the mood for sleep." Irritable and impatient, Mycroft's expression bore a marked resemblance to Sherlock when he was sulking.

Lestrade knew there was no hope for him when he just found it endearing, because, acid asides apart, Mycroft was usually so even-tempered.

With a poor grace, Mycroft headed for the bedroom.

Lestrade propped a shoulder on the door jamb of the dressing room the better to enjoy the flex and relax of Mycroft's naked backside. 

As if sensing he was under surveillance, Mycroft half-turned. "What now?" It took him seconds to see the answer in Lestrade's physical reaction. "Really?"

"If you've forgotten how much I fancy you, I'll just have to remind you all over again," said Lestrade, padding over to where Mycroft stood.

"What if I'm not in the mood?"

"Oh, please."

"You're not irresistible, you know. Oh, bugger your insistence on the truth," Mycroft added a beat later. "And now you'll be even more unbearable." His smile rather ruined the effect.

Within five minutes Lestrade was confident he had Mycroft's full attention, his only focus was Mycroft's pleasure.

His fingers slick with lubricant, Lestrade slowly finger-fucked the man curled half over him, loving all the small changes in Mycroft's expression.

"No, don't touch yourself," Lestrade commanded, his voice a gravel-rough rasp. "I'll see to everything. I want to see how far I can take you like this. And when you come, come over me."

His slackened mouth parted, his pupils blown, Mycroft gasped his agreement, his long fingers cramping in the sheets. A drop of clear liquid dripped from the eye of his cock to land on Lestrade's left nipple.

Lestrade thumbed up the moisture, sucking it away, while all the time his other hand controlled the slow rhythm that was taking Mycroft apart.

Quivering as Lestrade's fingertips rolled over his prostate again, Mycroft gave a long groan and stuttered, "You b-bastard. Could you go any slower?"

Lestrade decided to take the complaint as an instruction, reducing Mycroft to a sweating incoherence with every slow roll of his fingers, with every withdrawal before thrusting home to start all over again, and all the time murmuring into Mycroft's ear.

"Please..." gasped Mycroft at last, his forearm shaking where it supported most of his weight.

It took only eight rough pulls from a callused hand to finish him, semen splattering over Lestrade's chest and face. 

Mycroft collapsed beside Lestrade, nuzzling his stubbled jaw-line. "Fuck me," he said, when his mouth was back under his control.

"Yeah," said Lestrade, his voice tight with the control he had been exerting. "How?"

"On my knees, with your weight over my back," said Mycroft, this one of those times when he needed to feel Lestrade blanketing him,

"Lovely," said Lestrade, because a vulnerable Mycroft brought out his possessive side. He reached for the lubricant as Mycroft made himself comfortable.

Lestrade eased home, pausing over him. "Okay?"

By way of answer, Mycroft pressed back. "Have at me," he said.

His teeth bared, the strain of waiting visible in the muscles of his face, Lestrade began to thrust, in and out, in and out, the strong rhythm surging towards climax because this wasn't a night for a prolonged fucking. His pelvis snapped strong and fast, driving Mycroft into the banked pillows just as Lestrade muttered "Mine,' shuddered and came.

oOo

 

"Morning, Greg," said Watson cheerfully, as they met on the doorstep of 221B. "Filthy day, isn't it." He fumbled wetly with his key until Lestrade relieved him of two of the carrier bags to speed up the process of getting into the dry. "In you come. Sherlock's at Bart's. Molly called to say she had a head for him. Have you got time for a cuppa? I can guarantee no body parts or experiments, just not how long that will last."

Lestrade set down the carrier bags on the empty kitchen table, shrugged out of his soaked overcoat and slung it over the back of a chair before helping himself to the roll of paper towel and wiping away the moisture dripping into his eyes and down the back of his neck.

He blinked as he took in the full glory of the room. "I've never seen a kitchen of Sherlock's look so normal. And the Christmas decorations..."

Watson gave one of his small, happy half-smiles as he filled the kettle. "I got Mrs Hudson to ask him, on the grounds she'd have better luck with Sherlock than me."

While he doubted it, Lestrade had the sense not to say so. John was inclined to be a bit prickly when people made assumptions about his relationship with Sherlock. The betting pool at the Yard had a hell of a pot riding on the timing of this, but he was pretty sure they weren't shagging. Yet. 

Sherlock had certainly changed in the months he'd been sharing a flat with John. Mellowed might be stretching things but the improvement was definitely for the better. It wasn't that Sherlock was learning to be human - he'd never doubted that, except for a moment or two when Sherlock was being a bigger arse than usual - just that Sherlock seemed to be more willing to reveal it to outsiders every so often. He even apologised occasionally. Without prompting.

John Watson was a decent bloke. Good company. But Lestrade never let himself forget he'd also shot that cabbie like a pro - no sign of shock. No sign of anything.

So he kept an eye on him, just in case.

"Greg? Have you fallen asleep standing up?"

"What? Sorry, I was miles away. Oh, cheers." Lestrade helped himself to two chocolate digestives.

"Are you doing anything for Christmas?" Watson asked as he brushed crumbs from the front of his jumper.

Lestrade's smile faded. "I'd hoped to be on holiday but that's fallen through, so I'll probably be working," he said with gloom, before he glanced around, eager to change the subject. "You know, this isn't a bad flat without the experiments."

"Don't get used to it, Sherlock's bound to try and sneak the head in here at some point. But something had to be done. The smell was so bad it even bothered Sherlock, though he pretended otherwise. Mrs Hudson's reaction when she got back from her sister was the clincher."

"Does she realise her power over him?" Lestrade asked, amused.

"Oh, yeah. Which is why - " Watson gestured to the lights twinkling away, making the flat, which usually gave Lestrade the creeps, feel warm and welcoming.

Kettle on, Watson headed into the sitting room. "I'm glad I bumped into you. Here." He rummaged along the mantlepiece to produce what proved to be an invitation.

"Drinks at Christmas. Just a few mates," Watson explained, defensive when Lestrade continued to stare at him.

"Right. Look, this might be Sherlock's handwriting - good to know he still hasn't got a clue about my first name - but this is never his idea," said Lestrade with certainty. "He'd rather pluck out his own eyeballs than hold a party. Bribe, or blackmail?" 

"The drinks thing was my idea," Watson admitted. "Sherlock has friends, it's time he realised it. It's nothing ambitious," he added hastily, when he saw the doubt on Lestrade's face. "Mrs Hudson, you, Molly Hooper. There was no point asking Sherlock to invite his brother. It's supposed to be the season of goodwill, not the time of a massive strop."

"I notice you haven't answered my question about bribery or blackmail," said Lestrade dryly.

Watson grinned and handed him his tea. "I'm not planning to, either. So you'll come?"

Lestrade looked resigned. "Sure. Great," he added, when he received a quizzical look.

"Man up. How bad can it be?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "This is your first Christmas with Sherlock. We'll talk again in January."

"He promised he'd make an effort," said Watson simply.

Because he was a kind man, Lestrade let the subject drop just as Donovan rang to report a smash and grab raid at one of the high-end jewellers on his patch.

"Send a car to 221B. No, for me." After issuing a slew of instructions, Lestrade returned to his tea. "Great cup," he said with gratitude.

"I never thought to ask. Did you want Sherlock for anything?"

"No. I just haven't got out the habit of keeping an eye on him," said Lestrade with truth. "He's been a bit preoccupied lately." From John's shifty look it was obvious he was in on it, whatever it might be.

"He's not using," Watson said quickly, but reassuringly not too quickly. "Look, I know Sherlock's not great at remembering first names but he thinks a lot of you."

"You mean I'm not as stupid as the other police he's dealt with. It's fine." It was always easier to be philosophical when he hadn't worked with Sherlock for a while.

"Sherlock's been doing some work for his brother. It got...complicated."

"Am I going to need to arrest either of you?"

"I don't think so," said Watson conscientiously.

Before a sceptical Lestrade could reply, his car arrived. He grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs, calling his goodbye as he went.

Once in the car, Lestrade waved DC Wanduragala into silence and hunched down on his seat, worrying his lower lip, oblivious to the siren clearing a path through the traffic.

The fact Mycroft hadn't mentioned Sherlock working for him again wasn't good, but it might explain what had been preoccupying him. Mycroft had been working ridiculous hours recently - they'd already agreed a holiday this Christmas was out of the question - and was looking increasingly worn, as if some secret more unpleasant than usual was pressing down on him.

Of course, the worse part was missing the bugger, Lestrade conceded morosely.

"Sir?"

Lestrade refocused to find Newton Wanduragala eyeing him worriedly. Abruptly alert, he left the car to start making order from the chaos caused partly by the location of the jewellers and partly by the dickhead responsible for traffic control.

oOo

 

Lestrade spent Christmas investigating the murder of an eighty five year old woman in her home, knowing only that Mycroft busy somewhere else. He found the invitation to drinks at Baker Street, as he cleared out the pockets of his overcoat on New Year's Eve.

He presumed the drinks had gone well, though now he thought about it, Molly had been quieter than usual. Tossing the invitation in the waste bin, he settled down to his backlog of paperwork.

This wasn't how he would have chosen to spend New Year's Eve but Mycroft hadn't been home for a week and even his texts left something to be desired.

Lestrade sighed and tried to apply himself to work. He succeeded to the point where he scowled when his mobile rang and snatched it up without checking the screen. "Lestrade."

He was on his feet within seconds. "Sherlock, sit tight. I'm on my way."

He had just fallen into a taxi and was pulling on his overcoat when his phone rang again.

"What now?" he growled.

"This is obviously a bad time," said an amused, urbane voice.

"The voice is vaguely familiar," said Lestrade, relaxing where he sat. "I just can't place the name."

"Very droll. Concentrate, please."

Lestrade grimaced. "As this is my work phone I'm sensing that the conversation won't feature sex in my foreseeable future."

"Certainly not with me."

"Very amusing. Let me guess, Sherlock called you."

"Indeed he did. The world as we know it is obviously coming to an end. I wonder if you could run interference until Balasha arrives. She's approximately forty five minutes away."

"I'm in a taxi on the way to Baker Street as we speak. Something about Sherlock throwing a bloke out the window."

"A member of the CIA."

"I'll say one thing for your brother, said Lestrade, when he'd got his breath back, "he's never boring. You're not usually so forthcoming."

"No option," said Mycroft.

"Attaboy," said Lestrade. "All this honesty could be habit-forming."

"Don't get your hopes up. Mr Neilson and his two compatriots decided to torture Mrs Hudson for information. I might add that she utterly fooled them, despite being in pain and fear for her life." There was a note in Mycroft's voice Lestrade had never heard before.

Lestrade concentrated on essentials. He could leave retribution to the Holmes' brothers. "Is she all right?"

"Bruised, shaken and frightened but valiantly trying to disguise the fact."

"Was Neilson badly hurt?"

"Not as badly as I should have liked," said Mycroft, the chill still in his voice. "Paramedics are on their way to the scene - our paramedics, not the National Health. The local police were called in by an officious member of the public."

"Which is why you want me to run interference."

"Just so."

"Do you want me to question Neilson?"

"I gather that won't be possible for a while."

"I suppose there's no chance I can arrest Sherlock," said Lestrade flippantly.

"Tempting, but no."

"You're no fun."

"You tell me that so often it must be true," said Mycroft, warmth returning to his voice. "I hope you appreciate that you were Sherlock's first call."

"Oh, that can't be good," said Lestrade, touched despite himself. Or just delusional, he thought realistically. "Any chance of you getting home in the foreseeable future?" he added, just as Mycroft said,

"I have to go," and the line went dead.

Lestrade stared pensively at his phone. Not for the first time it occurred to him that life would have been simpler if he could have fallen for an accountant. Dull though, he admitted, taking out his wallet as the taxi turned into Baker Street.

At least Sherlock didn't try to deny he was responsible. Though how he'd got a guy as heavy as Neilson back upstairs only to throw him out the window again... Even with John's help that would have taken some doing.

Fortified by a beaker of Speedy's finest, Lestrade soothed the ruffled feathers of the uniformed officers called to the scene and kept a beady eye on the raincoated men watching with impotent fury as the private ambulance drove away. The muttering crowd were easily dealt with, Lestrade ensured they heard how the injured man had tortured an old age pensioner, instantly turning the anger away from the police.

When Balasha and her team arrived, Lestrade quickly updated her and wasn't surprised to find himself left with a lot of time-consuming details.

It was almost ten o'clock by the time he was free to leave. His stomach rumbling hungrily, he was about to call a response car to take him home, so he could order his favourite Indian takeaway, when he heard the sounds of a violin from Sherlock's flat. Which probably meant Mrs Hudson wasn't there.

With a sigh of resignation, he dismissed the policemen guarding the front of 221B and went up to Mrs Hudson's flat, taking care to announce himself before he knocked on her door.

When she let him in, she looked pale and tired, her cheery smile and fluttering reassurances belied by her frightened eyes. There were darkening bruises on her wrist and neck and Lestrade fought down a surge of rage.

Once the predictable questions were out of the way, he said, "Have you eaten? Only I'm starving and I hate eating alone. Particularly on New Year's Eve. Can I tempt you out to dinner with me? I know it's a bit late," he added apologetically, as if that was his only thought.

"Oh," she breathed, her shoulders relaxing. "But you can't want to - "

"Excellent." Lestrade fished out his phone.

Seven minutes later, because it had taken her a while to decide which bag to take, they were heading to the Chinese restaurant at the end of the road.

"How on earth did you manage to get a table on New Year's Eve?" Mrs Hudson thought to ask, after they had toasted the new year in, her cheeks rosy from three quarters of a bottle of wine she had drunk.

Lestrade tapped the side of his nose and saw no reason to mention the small amount of blackmail that had been involved.

"Your young lady doesn't know what she's missing," said Mrs Hudson, tucking her arm in Lestrade's as they made their way back to 221B.

"Man, and not so young," added Lestrade, his grin a private thing.

"That's nice." She slowed as they approached the front door.

Lestrade opened it for her, checked the hall, then opened the door to her flat, which he also checked - just to reassure her.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but your partner, it's not John, is it? Only Sherlock wouldn't like that. Not one little bit." She eyed him anxiously.

"Of course it isn't. John and I enjoy the odd pint but my heart belongs to A. N. Other."

When Mrs Hudson went off to make the tea neither of them wanted, Lestrade's phone vibrated and he read the text:

'I'm delighted to hear it. Happy new year. A. N. Other.'

'You're bugging me?" Lestrade texted back.

'Just keeping an eye on Mrs Hudson for a few days."

'She'll go spare.'

'I wasn't proposing to tell her. Sherlock requested the surveillance.'

'Blimey.'

'Quite. Are you staying the night?'

'How did you know that?' texted Lestrade with affectionate exasperation.

'I know you. Her sofa is hellishly uncomfortable.'

'Thanks for the warning. Love you - and happy new year.'

As Mycroft had warned, Mrs Hudson's sofa was too short, too lumpy and the fabric made Lestrade itch. But as she had a nightmare and came out to make tea just before four in the morning, he didn't have to suffer it for long.

JANUARY 2011

Feeling emotionally bruised, after another round of apologies - this time for the collapse of the Bond Air project, Mycroft didn't sleep on the flight back from Washington D.C. While his authority hadn't been irrevocably damaged, his pride had suffered quite a dent. It had been a good few years since anyone had condescended to him, and he liked it even less now than he had then.

Of course, it had helped that the Americans had their own apologies to make, after the CIA had encroached on his territory and compounded that error but breaking into his brother's home, and attacking their old nanny.

All in all, it had been an unpleasant twenty four hours. He took a sip of the tepid mineral water - his only option given the unpleasant quality of the tea - then pulled a face as it occurred to him that he might be growing a tad arrogant.

Checks and balances, that was the trick. Though Gregory could probably be relied on to stop him becoming too objectionable, he thought with a faint smile. He flexed his tense shoulders, hoping against hope that Gregory wouldn't be working this weekend.

Before he could go home, he needed to see Sherlock, to apologise. While Adler had undoubtedly led Sherlock around by the nose for a while, Sherlock had never been as...bewitched...as he'd assumed. But then Sherlock didn't meet many his intellectual equal...  
It had been unfair to put the blame for the failure of Bond Air onto him. Worse, he'd done so in front of Adler.

The one advantage of his position was the speed with which he was able to disembark, he mused, as he greeted David, who was waiting with the car.

Brought up-to-date on events during the drive to Baker Street, Mycroft chose to ring the bell, rather than let himself in. No point in irritating Sherlock more than he was bound to do.

"Mycroft," said Mrs Hudson, without enthusiasm. She made no attempt to move out of the doorway.

Grateful the day was relatively mild, Mycroft inclined his head. "Yes, I can see you're thrilled to see me," he said dryly.

She had the grace to look guilty. "I won't take you up, my hip's giving me gyp today."

"You should see a specialist." Mycroft took out his phone.

"I'm sure you mean well - at least, I'd like to think you do," she added dubiously, "but you leave well alone. I'm not having them filling me up with metal at my time of life. It's not as if I need to be limber in the pelvic department these days."

"Quite." Mycroft looked queasy because there were some mental images he could live without.

"I hope you're not here to scold Sherlock again. He's looking peakier than usual. And quiet. Well, quieter. Have you two fallen out again?"

Mycroft murmured something non-committal and headed up the stairs.

 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, saw his brother standing in the middle of the living room and groaned.

"What now?" he demanded.

Experienced in Sherlock-watching, Mycroft recognised the defensiveness of the small boy who felt humiliated and unjustly accused.

"I came to apologise," he said stiffly.

"Really?" His expression brightening, Sherlock flung himself on the sofa and gestured regally. "Well, get on with it then. I've things to do. Though I'm not sure what you can have to apologise for - unless it's your existence, of course."

"Time will see to that problem," said Mycroft, as he made himself comfortable in Watson's chair. "I was wrong to blame you for the failure of the Bond Air project."

Sherlock shrugged, before his eyes narrowed. "Did it affect your position?"

"Some minor humiliations, nothing more. It's part of the job. But I am truly sorry. Various plans came crashing down at the same time and I took my frustration out on you."

Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his dressing gown, his trousered legs stretched out in front of him, his feet bare. "Perhaps you should have hired Adler."

"I considered it, briefly. But she's too unreliable. With no ties to family, or country, she'll always be for sale to the highest bidder."

"Past tense, surely?"

"Of course," murmured Mycroft, playing the game.

"You could say the same of me," said Sherlock, glancing at Mycroft from under his eyelashes.

Mycroft gave an inelegant snort. "Don't be ridiculous. And don't bother arguing. I know you too well. Has Mrs Hudson recovered from the attack?"

"She doesn't seem so nervous any more. Are you still monitoring her?"

"Only for the first week. I don't have the manpower," Mycroft said frankly. "I could have cameras installed, if you think it's necessary?"

"No. John and I will look after her," said Sherlock with decision.

"I have no doubt of it. Nor, I suspect, does she. If you require my assistance, call. You know the emergency number. No John?"

A shadow crossed Sherlock's face in a mercurial change of mood. "His shift at the clinic has changed. This job of his is totally inconsiderate."

"Why, do you need his assistance with something?"

"No, but I might," said Sherlock sulkily.

His eyebrows raised, Mycroft said, "Is that a thought you propose to share with John?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why indeed."

"No, I mean it," said Sherlock. "Why shouldn't I?"

Mycroft gave the faintest of sighs. "If I hadn't been outside Mummy's room when you were born, I could console myself with the thought that you're a changeling."

"Or you were," Sherlock pointed out.

"There is that. Have you seen any trace of Moriarty, since your encounter at the swimming pool?"

Sherlock scowled, the memory obviously unwelcome. "No. I've been unable to trace him, even with the help of my Irregulars."

"Keep them looking. I'll pay," Mycroft added. "But warn them to take care."

"They live on the streets. They understand danger.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock added, in the tone of one making a great discovery. "If you're not on a diet, lunch with me."

The invitation was unheard of, but it wouldn't do to make a fuss. "Certainly, if we dine at the Diogenes, or my house."

"Afraid to be seen with me in public?"

"Adler assumed we were adversaries. Others may do the same. It occurred to me that there may be an advantage to be had in our public enmity. I'll stop visiting Baker Street."

"I see the advantage already," said Sherlock immediately.

Mycroft's mouth tightened as he studied his linked hands. While Sherlock's response was predictable, it still stung. "As you say."

"We could meet in an hour at the Diogenes. I'll dress for the tradesmen entrance," said Sherlock, his manner ultra-casual, as it was when he wanted to avoid making an apology.

"I'll supply you with a burner phone, so we can talk without the danger of being traced. Don't talk from here."

"The flat's bugged?"

"Not at this moment. I had it swept before I came."

Sherlock gave him a speaking look, but let it pass. "Very well," he said.

"I suspect we're going to need all the advantage we can get with Moriarty."

"You have people looking for him?"

Mycroft studied his brother thoughtfully. "He tried to kill you - and John. Of course I have people looking for him."

"A bullet in the back of his head would solve everything."

"Undoubtedly. But not on British soil. Not on my watch," said Mycroft with finality.

"Pity," sniffed Sherlock, but he didn't argue. "Now go away. You've lunch to arrange. I can't stand the fare the Diogenes serve. Malay. Your house."

"Call in at number 27."

Sherlock's face lit up with pleasure. "A secret passage? Mycroft, really."

"Far more prosaic. A shared basement, even if it's well disguised.."

"Your security must love that."

"Not noticeably," Mycroft admitted. "I'll expect you in an hour."

oOo 

 

No sooner had Lestrade cleared up the murder of the eighty five year old woman when another came in, a racially-motivated assault which turned into a murder inquiry when the father of three died. 

Grumpy and miserable by the time he arrived home just after eleven at night, because with Len and Annie still on holiday in Australia the house was less than welcoming, Lestrade paused in the doorway of the bedroom when he saw Mycroft flat out on their bed, fast asleep. His mood miraculously improving, he was careful not to disturb the sleeper as he showered away the last few days and eased into bed. 

Within seconds Mycroft mumbled something incomprehensible, rolled over and tucked himself into the curve of Lestrade's body, one lax hand resting on Lestrade's flank, without ever quite waking. Enfolded in warmth and the scent of Mycroft, Lestrade placed his hand over Mycroft's and fell asleep in seconds.

 

When he woke at six, in desperate need of a pee, Mycroft was gone, with only a mess in his dressing room to show where he had been. That and the fact he had found time to set out clean clothing for Lestrade - in a far better combination than he would have come up with - and to write a note in his crabbed handwriting.

'Congratulations on solving two cases so quickly.

'My nobility of nature was displayed when I refrained from what would have undoubtedly been necrophilia - when did you last enjoy a full night's sleep? Though it has to be admitted you look very fetching, even with your mouth open as you dribbled down my arm.

'Freshly squeezed orange juice is in the fridge.

'I should be home tonight. Love, M.' 

Lestrade was still smiling when he went to find his wallet so he could tuck the note in the secret compartment.

 

Home just before six that night, the cold, wet Wednesday evening underwent an improvement when Mycroft and Lestrade met on their front door stop.

Lestrade closed the front door by the simple expedient of leaning back against it before tucking his arm around Mycroft and holding on tight, his nose pressed just under Mycroft's jaw, sucking in the scent of him.

"Gregory?" said Mycroft, although by that time he was hugging Lestrade back just as tightly.

"Don't tell anyone, but I've missed you something rotten these last couple of weeks," Lestrade mumbled, not looking up.

"Mmn," said Mycroft, the unpleasantness of the last few days - weeks - easing away as he nosed the grey hair above Lestrade's left ear.

"Take your 'Mmn' and raise you an 'Uhuh'. No, don't move, I haven't finished cuddling you yet."

Even while wrapped in a warm, Lestrade-scented embrace, Mycroft managed to look pained. "Do you have to call it that?" he said plaintively.

Lestrade drew back a little, his eyes bright with mischief. "Would you prefer a handshake?"

Mycroft had the sense to concede defeat gracefully.

 

After his reunion with Mycroft, Lestrade was in an exceedingly good mood the following day.

"Morning, David. You look even more exhausted than Mycroft, and I didn't think that was possible," he said, as he opened the front door to the younger man. 

"My youngest is teething," said David, as he secured the front door behind him.

"Come upstairs. Mycroft's only just started shaving, so he'll be ages yet, barring a crisis, of course."

"None on the horizon that I know of," David said, sniffing the air in a hopeful manner.

"Oh, subtle," grinned Lestrade. "I suppose you want feeding?"

"I've had some cereal," David said, without enthusiasm.

"You can't call that food." Lestrade took the stairs two at a time and arrived in the kitchen just in time to stop the sausages from burning. "Help yourself to coffee.

"Can you do me a favour?" he added, as he added ketchup to the sausage sandwich he had constructed, before handing the plate to David.

"That depends," David said with caution. He took a large bite of his sandwich in case Lestrade decided to barter with it.

"You've been working for Mycroft too long. It's nothing he'll disapprove of."

David looked unconvinced as he continued to munch.

"You know I don't like guns and that I can't shoot straight to save my life. Mycroft being who he is, I think I should learn. At least to do better," Lestrade added wryly. "He hasn't got time to take me to the range. Can you recommend somewhere I could go so I can get some instruction to help me improve? No need to mention this to Mycroft."

"Why not?" asked David with suspicion.

"Because he'll think I'm doing it for him."

David frowned as he licked his fingers clean. "But you are."

"I know," said Lestrade patiently, "but I don't want him to have anything else to worry about." He wasn't surprised when David failed to rise to the bait and offer any clues.

"I'm pretty sure Mr Holmes would rather you practised on our range with one of our instructors. Which he'll know about because he knows everything that goes on, sooner or later. And God help us if it's later. But I'll organise clearance for you. Though you'll need an escort once you're inside the centre. Okay?"

"Great. Thanks. Another sandwich?"

"I shouldn't. Alice is threatening me with a diet. Oh, go on then."

oOo

Lestrade made time to get to the range every day and after a week had the satisfaction of being able to hit the outer rim of his own target eight times out of ten - a vast improvement on his previous showing.

Pleased with his progress, he handed the Glock to his instructor, thanked him and eased his ear muffs down around his neck. As he turned to leave he discovered Mycroft lounging against the far wall, his long legs crossed at the ankle, one hand in the pocket of his grey striped trousers.

"Been here long?" asked Lestrade, when he had stopped smiling, oblivious to the instructor who was tactfully melting away.

"Long enough. You're making real progress. You know you don't have to do this," Mycroft added, pushing himself from the support of the wall.

By this time Lestrade was close enough to give the pin-striped waistcoat a gentle tweak. "I know. But if things ever go pear-shaped when we're out together I don't want you compromising your safety looking after me."

"You're an idiot," said Mycroft with unloverlike frankness.

"So are you if you think I'd stand by and do nothing."

Mycroft's mouth compressed and he gave Lestrade a moody look as they set off down the corridor to the lifts.

"You're conceding I'm right then?" said Lestrade, who recognised the signs.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it."

"Yeah, yeah." Lestrade tucked his arm in Mycroft's. "I'll need a gun, of course. For when we're together."

"That's not necessarily a reassuring thought," Mycroft pointed out straight-faced.

"Don't try and change the subject. And ammo, plus a permit, of course." Lestrade waited expectantly.

Exhaling, Mycroft gave a reluctant nod. "I'll see to it. But I know you dislike firearms and I don't want you to - "

"I'm going to be guarding your back, armed or not," said Lestrade in the flat tone there was no point arguing with.

"I know," sighed Mycroft, looking so care-worn that it made Lestrade give a snort of amusement as he nudged him into the lift.

"Don't be too encouraging. If I have it, I won't need it."

"If only life worked out so conveniently."

"As you've obviously got time to waste, you can take me to the pub. I need a drink. Or three."

"Pub it is," said Mycroft, as they arrived in the underground car park. "Or I could just take you home."

"Why?"

Mycroft gave him a patient look.

"Oh." Brightening, Lestrade speeded up.

oOo

 

"Perhaps now you'll be good enough to tell me what's so urgent," said Mycroft, when he and Balasha were finally alone.

"Our security has been compromised. We have a mole in our midst."

He considered that for only three seconds, she counted.

"Proof?"

"If I had proof, I'd hand you their heads," she said, tart because she'd had very little sleep in the last few days.

"Then your ascertain is based on what?"

"GCHQ intercepted chatter about the Oaktree op. They were unable to track the source because the signals were bounced all over the world. The server is in Russia, so no help there."

"Fuck!" said Mycroft with quiet venom. "MI5, MI6, Defence Intelligence or Dirty Tricks?"

"Worse than that, sir. From the reference, the information could only have come from someone in your inner circle."

"Forty four people, excluding you."

"Forty five, including me," she retorted. "Trust no one, that's what you teach us."

"Don't be tiresome," Mycroft told her. "Besides, it could be me."

"I'm not convinced you could bring yourself to mis-use semi-colons," she said.

Mycroft sat back, crossing his legs, as casual as if they were about to enjoy afternoon tea. "Interesting. It could be a double bluff, of course. Someone who knows our methods a little too well for comfort. Which would reduce the number to seventeen."

The names Mycroft rattled off were identical to those on her list.

She had no way of knowing how little of his attention he was giving to their conversation as he worried how best to ensure the safety of the people he loved the most.

**Author's Note:**

> A Detective Inspector would never normally have permission to carry a firearm - I don't think officers of that rank work in the Protection details of royalty, or certain politicians.
> 
> Windsor castle, in Berkshire, is the Queen's preferred home when she doesn't have duties at Buckingham Palace. 
> 
> Sandringham, an estate in Norfolk used by the Royal Family, who seem to spend most of December-February there.
> 
> GCHQ  
> The Government Communications Head Quarters is real, and is situated just outside Cheltenham. I'm assuming we're not supposed to think it spies on people, though it's hard to imagine what other purpose it could have. If Mycroft was real - well, of course, he is:) - it would be under his ultimate control.


End file.
